


Off The Record

by Brenda



Series: Off The Record [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Barnes Feels, M/M, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-06 04:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4208274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"This is a serious coup, James.  Steve Rogers has never sat down with a member of the press and given an interview.  <i>Ever</i>.  Do you know how rare that is for the fourth-string star on a cable reality show, much less the biggest movie star in the world?"</i><br/> </p><p>Celebrity/Journalist AU based on <a href="http://twinagonies.tumblr.com/post/122133178856/prompt-letter">this amazing prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off The Record

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twinagonies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinagonies/gifts).



> A couple of notes:
> 
> 1) These days no one would get nominated for, much less win, an Oscar without campaigning for it and doing all the press ever. Let's all just assume Steve was that damn good in the role.  
> 2) The MCU kinda/sorta exists in this world - like, there are films based on the Marvel comic book characters, but the movies themselves are different.  
> 3) Ten Pound is a real bar inside the Montage Hotel and yes, the bacon really is that good. :)

"Barnes!! In my office!"

Bucky jerked his head away from his monitor, where he'd been making final edits on his latest story, and frowned at Natasha's back as she wove her way through the bullpen cubicles and to her small office at the end of the hallway. "What the fuck was that?" he asked, puzzled.

Darcy, who covered the arts and entertainment beat and had the cube next to his, shrugged. "No clue, babe, but the Black Widow does not sound happy right now. What'd you do? Piss off any heads of state or senators lately?"

"Not in the last week," Bucky replied with a grin, then stood and grabbed his notebook and pen. "And you know she hates that nickname."

She gave another shrug, supremely unconcerned with the state of their editor's feelings. "'S why I only use it when she's not around to hear."

"She's got ears everywhere, Darcy."

"I'll take my chances." Darcy waved in the direction of Natasha's office. "Now go before she sends a search party."

He sketched out a quick two-fingered salute as he turned. "Yes, ma'am."

"And don't forget it!" Darcy called after him.

When he walked in, Natasha was busy typing away on her keyboard. "Shut the door," she said, without looking up.

He did as asked, and stood there, arms crossed, watching her until she finished whatever it was she was doing. If she was going to yell at him for any reason, he'd rather not be sitting for it. Although he really couldn't remember anything he'd done (at least, lately) to warrant getting yelled at. Mostly, he'd been compiling all of his notes and interviews from his latest assignment.

Finally, she turned away from the computer and gave him an amused smirk. "Relax, Barnes, I'm not firing you."

"I know you're not." He was the best investigative journalist she had and everyone on staff knew it. If she even tried to fire him, he knew The New York Times and Vanity Fair would offer him a job on the spot. He stuck around because he was a loyal sort of guy, and believed in what the paper was doing. That, and he liked the people he worked with.

"Got a new assignment for you." She handed him a sheet of paper. "You're flying out of JFK tonight, itinerary's all there."

Bucky scanned the sheet, then looked up with a frown. "This is a joke, right."

She shook her head. "No joke. You were asked for by name."

"Darcy's the entertainment reporter, not me."

"I know, you're a _serious_ journalist," Natasha said, with an exaggerated eye roll, "and I get that, but even Sebastian Junger's lowered himself to do the occasional celebrity interview. And this is a serious coup, James. Steve Rogers has never sat down with a member of the press and given an interview. _Ever_. Do you know how rare that is for the fourth-string star on a cable reality show, much less the biggest movie star in the world?"

"Sure," Bucky replied, with a shrug. And yeah, he'd had some vague idea that the guy was pretty press shy, but celebrity gossip and shit like that sort of rolled off of him without really sticking. He moved in vastly different circles. The only time he even _had_ time to watch movies and TV shows was on flights. He could maybe name three of Steve's films off the top of his head, and had only really _liked_ one of those. "Still don't see what that has to do with me."

"Because he asked for you and only you. Because this is an interview that every single news outlet and magazine and blog and person with a fucking microphone has been trying to get since his first film and it just fell into our laps. Because this interview will mean publicity and eyeballs and clicks, which means advertising, which means money, which means we get to keep our jobs and you get funding to continue to report on whatever the next great humanitarian issue is and earn your second Pulitzer."

Bucky waited, sure she was bluffing, and frowned when she didn't crack a smile or even blink. "You're really serious about this, are you?"

She smiled, closed-lipped, and pointed at the sheet of paper in his hand. "Your flight to Los Angeles is in five hours. I suggest you go home and pack a bag."

***

He spent the six hour flight from New York to Los Angeles pulling up every scrap of information he could about one Steve Rogers. There wasn't a whole lot. Born in New York, but went to RADA in London, spent a couple of years treading the boards and winning award after award on the West End until Tony Stark, one of the biggest producers in Hollywood, had come to personally beg him on bended knee to take the role of Captain America. Steve had (probably for the ridiculous paycheck, Bucky surmised) said yes, and the first film had broken box office record after box office record, and after that, he'd been anointed the Savior of Hollywood. 

It seemed like every role Steve Rogers took, from the Captain America sequels to his other action films, to supporting roles in much smaller "prestige" (read: Awards bait) movies, turned to gold. He was this generation's Tom Cruise (minus the crazy) and Brad Pitt (minus the famous girlfriends or wives), only no one knew a damn thing about him. Not even his birthday. Even the savviest of reporters hadn't been able to dig up anything. He didn't seem to have any family or childhood friends willing to sell their story for a quick buck, and all anyone who worked with him would say was that Steve was a complete professional and a delight to work with, and they'd all, to a person, work with him again in a heartbeat.

He didn't even really have any sort of social media presence. No Twitter, no Facebook, no Tumblr or Periscope or even a website. About the only thing he _did_ have was an Instagram account, but he was never in any photos he posted. Just random shots of places he'd been – a street vendor in Kuala Lumpur, an old building in Vienna, a picturesque waterfall in Costa Rica – just nature and his surroundings, no selfies, and no photos of him on set. (Bucky noted that this lack still hadn't stopped Steve from having over twenty million followers, which was sort of insane.)

By all fannish accounts, Steve was super polite every time he was recognized in the street or if fans showed up where he was filming. He was happy to pose for pictures, signed every autograph, the works. But he never chatted about himself, just asked how the fans were doing, deflected all conversation back to them. He'd even managed to go under the radar during charitable hospital visits – no one ever knew about them ahead of time, and he never did any press bringing any sort of attention to them.

It was nuts. The guy wasn't afraid to put himself out there on the screen, wasn't afraid to strip naked for the camera or show emotional vulnerability or make himself look terrible or ridiculous or whatever the role required, but he couldn't do even one press junket or podcast or AMA Reddit or _something_? Maybe the mystery was part of the appeal for everyone. 

And now, almost a decade after taking the world by storm and cultivating this aura of ambiguity, of winning awards and making more money than his potential future grandchildren could ever spend, Steve Rogers was ready to sit down for an interview. Why? And why with a reporter known more for his work on exposing sex trafficking in Serbia and ivory poaching in Tanzania and working conditions in rural Chinese factories? It didn't make any sense.

Bucky loved a good mystery, but this one was top of the line. He only hoped he'd get some answers once he met Steve in person.

***

Bucky hated LAX. It was probably the worst of the major international airports, although Heathrow wasn't too far behind. He pretty much hated Los Angeles on general principle, but it started with the airport. There was no real way to move between terminals, the food options were terrible, the traffic getting out of the airport was the worst, and good luck trying to get your luggage in a timely manner if you had to check it.

But there was a definite upside in heading towards baggage claim and seeing a suited man holding up a sign with his name on it. Looked like there were a few perks in slumming it with movie stars.

He nodded at the sign, stuck out a hand. "I'm James Barnes."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," the chauffeur replied. "I've been instructed to take you to your hotel. Can I take your bag, sir?"

"Sure." He handed over his suitcase, but kept the satchel that had his laptop and notebook. He followed the driver out the sliding glass doors and to the curb, where a sleek black Lincoln town car was waiting. Snazzy. Maybe there was something to doing fluff pieces. Bucky was used to either getting picked up in broken down Jeeps or hoofing it to the nearest town or village to meet his guide.

He kept up a stream of small talk with the driver on the way to the hotel – he genuinely liked talking to people, which was one reason he was so good at his job. They talked about L.A. traffic and the World Cup, which led to discussing the latest FIFA controversy, and before Bucky knew it, they were pulling up to the Montage Hotel, situated right in the heart of Beverly Hills.

And once again, he had to hand it to whoever it was that put this whole thing together, because he was whisked through check-in in a heartbeat and escorted up to his room within five minutes. And, even as jaded as he was, he couldn't help the low whistle when the bellhop opened the door and walked him through the suite he'd be staying in all week.

It was, in a word, ridiculous. A bed big enough for an orgy, a separate fully equipped kitchen, a fireplace (which, come _on_ , who in L.A. needed a fireplace), a bathroom that had a separate shower and tub, a patio that overlooked the garden area outside, marble everywhere...the place was bigger than his apartment in New York. A family of four could live here comfortably.

Bucky wondered why anyone would go through this much trouble and expense for one reporter, and if this was some odd attempt to impress him.

The bellhop had just left when there was a discreet knock on the door. Bucky opened it to find a tall, dark-haired woman wearing a navy summer dress and sensible pumps standing on the other side.

"Mr. Barnes? Hi, I'm Maria Hill, Steve Rogers' agent." Her handshake was brisk and firm. Her lips were the same vibrant red as her leather clutch.

"Yeah, I'm Bucky, I mean, uh, Barnes. Come on in, sorry." He shut the door behind her. He wasn't sure if he should offer her a seat or not. "Do I have you to thank for the digs?"

She turned to face him, her smile bringing out a set of sexy dimples. Under normal circumstances, he'd be flirting up a storm. She was exactly his type in a woman. "No, that was all Steve's idea. He wanted you to feel comfortable."

"I'm not entirely sure that a $4000 a night suite is what normal people would consider comfortable."

"Steve is friends with the owners of the Montage. This is his preferred hotel when he comes to Los Angeles."

"He doesn't live here?" Bucky asked. He'd sort of assumed that Steve was like most other celebs and lived in Pacific Palisades or Malibu or the Hills. Some gated community that kept out the riffraff and all that.

Maria smiled again. "You can ask him yourself about his living arrangements when you meet."

"Uh, yeah, about that..." He cupped the back of his neck, frowned. "Why did he ask for me? He's gotta know I don't do this sort of thing. I mean, this is an interesting change of pace, but this really isn't my scene, y'know."

"You can ask him that when you meet up with him, as well." She handed him an embossed business card. "Simply present this to the maître d at Scarpetta downstairs and they'll have someone escort you to Ten Pound."

"Ten Pound?"

"It's an exclusive, private Macallan Bar on the second level of the restaurant. The hotel agreed to let Steve have it for the night so you two could talk in private."

Once again, Bucky wasn't sure whether or not he was supposed to be impressed. Who bought out an entire bar just for an interview? "Okay," he finally said. "Should I wear a suit or something?"

She laughed like he'd said something amusing. "Not unless you want to."

"I'd rather not." He was far more comfortable in jeans and a henley or a t-shirt. It was one of the big reasons he never went to business school, despite his aptitude for numbers. "Do you have a list of things he'd like to talk about or no-go subjects?"

"Steve was very clear that no topic would be off-limits for you to ask."

"Huh." Surprising, but he had to admit he was pleased. "So, what time am I meeting him?"

"Eight, for drinks," she said. "If you like, I can make reservations for you somewhere for dinner or..."

"Nah, room service is fine. I have some notes I want to go over anyway."

"Very well. If you have any questions, let me know," she said, and made a move towards the door.

"Actually, I do have one," he said. "Did he tell _you_ why he wanted me? For the interview?"

She shook her head. "It never occurred to me to ask. Steve's reasons for doing anything are his own."

"Right. Man of mystery, even to the people who work for him."

She just gave him a nod. "My number's on the card. Let me know if there's anything you need."

"Yeah, thanks," he said, and saw her out, wondering exactly what it was he'd gotten himself into.

***

In the end, Bucky opted for jeans and a black Henley – he didn't care how much money Steve threw around, if Bucky was going to participate in this farce, at least he was going to be comfortable. He grabbed his phone (which doubled as his voice recorder) and small notebook and pen and headed downstairs a few minutes early, hoping to scope out the place before Steve showed up.

The hostess at Scarpetta didn't even blink at his outfit, just led him up the staircase to the second level and a paneled door, where another host was waiting to let him inside Ten Pound. Exclusive didn't begin to cover it, Bucky thought, as he looked around. Place was _tiny_ \- just a small lobby area with an equally small bar, and a balcony area that housed a few cozy looking sofas and chairs and low tables. The bar could maybe fit about 30 to 40 people between both areas.

There were _definite_ perks to having money to burn, he thought.

He'd just come from the balcony back to the bar area when the panel door slid open and Steve Rogers – just him, no entourage or assistant or anyone else – walked in.

 _Wow_ was Bucky's first thought. And his second.

So much for the joke about movie stars looking so much bigger on the screen than in real life. Because Steve was pretty much the living embodiment of perfection. Slightly taller than Bucky himself, with windswept blond hair and a physique that could have put an athlete's to shame, and a face that looked like it was put together by a particularly benevolent god. Bright blue eyes and sharp cheekbones and the longest eyelashes Bucky'd ever seen on a man – no wonder Tony Stark had begged for him to play Captain America. The guy looked every inch a comic book hero come to life. 

Bucky, who was no slouch himself in the looks department (although, admittedly, his was of the tall, dark and rakish variety), felt positively inadequate. It was seriously a shame he was on assignment and had to keep things professional. If he'd met Steve under normal circumstances (whatever those might have been, seeing as how they didn't run remotely in the same crowds), he'd have made a serious play at getting Steve out of his t-shirt and well-fitting jeans.

Steve also looked a little familiar - something about his eyes, the shape or color of them maybe? Or it could be that Bucky'd just seen more of Steve's films than he'd thought.

Then Steve stuck out his hand, his smile bright and crinkling those remarkably pretty eyes at the corners. Somehow, the smile seemed even warmer in person. "Hi there. I'm Steve Rogers."

Bucky offered his hand in return. "James Barnes, but call me Bucky, everyone does."

Something flashed in Steve's eyes for the briefest moment – a shadow that was there and gone so fast Bucky thought he might've imagined it. "Bucky it is, then," Steve said. His voice was smooth and surprisingly deep. "Family nickname?"

"Sorta. Middle name's Buchanan. My best friend in grade school gave me the nickname and it kinda stuck." He'd told this story so many times over the years he had it down to a science.

That same brief shadow passed over Steve's face before he shook his head. "Well, it's a real honor to meet you. I'm a big fan."

"Really?" Bucky asked, surprised.

"Yeah, own all your books, read all your articles. Your piece last year on what's been going on in the DR Congo was...it was amazing." Steve's smile softened, became something breathtakingly intimate. "Your Pulitzer was well earned."

"Uh, thank you." It wasn't that Bucky'd never been around famous people who'd read his work – it was pretty common, especially after his book on the Russian Spetsnaz became something of a bestseller and had served as the basis for a well-received TV series. But Steve seemed so _sincere_ about it. Like he was proud of Bucky, for some reason.

"I wish I could say the same about you," he offered. Maybe he should have spent the flight watching a couple more of Steve's movies.

Steve waved a negligent hand, like he was embarrassed. "Oh, well, that's okay. I mean, my movies must seem pretty boring for someone who's seen as much as you have."

"Yeah, I guess." Bucky got the aesthetic appeal of action films and war movies. But he'd seen too much combat in real life – and experienced firsthand what it was like to be in the middle of a gunfight – to ever want to see it romanticized on screen. "I really liked the last movie you did, though. _The Winter Soldier._ It was...unexpected. In a really good way. You were..." Extraordinary, a revelation "...you were really good in the role," he finished, lamely.

"Thanks." A very charming blush settled on those high cheekbones. It was a little odd, considering. Didn't most movie stars have people fawning all over them to give them compliments?

"You won an Oscar for that, right?" Bucky asked, even though he already knew the answer. 

"Uh, yeah." Steve cleared his throat. "I did."

"But you didn't go to the ceremony." It wasn't a question.

Steve ducked his head and peered at Bucky from under those ridiculously long eyelashes. "I'm sorry, is the interview starting now?"

"No, we're just making conversation," Bucky replied. He wondered if the look was meant to be as attractive as it was.

"Uh, no, I didn't. I don't...do well. In public, I mean. Public situations. I'm not very good at it."

"I can see that," Bucky replied, but smiled to show he was joking.

"Yeah, sorry." Steve huffed out a rueful chuckle. "I guess I'm a little nervous."

"Hey, you called me, remember? We don't have to do this. I could be on a flight back to New York tonight."

"No, no, I do. I mean, I want to do this. Let's just...let's sit and order a drink. I think that'll help."

"It's your dime, Steve. Lead the way."

They headed to the secluded balcony and took a seat on one of the plush sofas overlooking the view of the garden and the Hollywood Hills in the distance. A server materialized as if by magic and greeted them both, ran through the options, and assured them that while the bar specialized in Macallan single malt, they had a full bar if either of them wanted something different.

"Yeah, I think I'm okay with the 21 year fine oak," Steve said, and raised a brow at Bucky.

"Uh, sure. Same." He wasn't nearly as well versed in single malts as he was bourbons and vodkas, but he had a pretty good palate, and he'd always found it easier to get his subjects to relax if he had what they were having. Which had led to some pretty interesting choices over the years, but he'd never shied away from new experiences.

They were both silent as the server returned and set up the tableside service. Steve instructed her to just leave the bottle when she was done, and waited until she left before picking up one of the glasses. "Well, cheers, I guess."

"Cheers." The tumblers were fine cut crystal and very heavy. The ice balls were, so they'd been told, made out of pure Scottish Highlands spring water. The server'd also left them with tray filled with a block of aged cheddar, a glass of very crispy bacon and a dish of some candied nuts. "You always hang out in places this lavish?" Bucky asked, after taking an approving sip. Nice and smooth, not too peaty.

"Not really." Steve shrugged, the movement a little sheepish. Like he was trying to make himself smaller for some reason. "Mostly, I'm a beer and brats kinda guy, but it's good to treat yourself every once in awhile. And the bacon is really amazing here."

"I guess you can't go wrong with a bar that serves bacon," Bucky agreed, and gestured around the area. "Was all of this – the hotel suite, the limo, buying out a bar – was all this for my benefit? To impress me?"

He'd meant it as somewhat of a joke, but that same high, attractive flush appeared on Steve's cheeks. "Why, _are_ you impressed?"

"Would it matter if I was?" 

"Kinda, maybe?"

"Why?" Bucky asked, genuinely curious.

"I have no idea."

Bucky got the odd impression that Steve had just told his first outright lie of the night. Interesting. "Alright, then, do you mind telling me why you asked for me to do this interview? And don't tell me it's because you're a fan of my books or my work."

"Well, I am. A fan, I mean." Steve's fingers toyed with his glass. His lashes dropped, shadowing his eyes. "You really don't remember me, do you?"

"Should I?" He was sure he would have remembered meeting Steve Rogers, if only for the novelty factor. "I'm sorry, I don't recall – when did we meet?"

He was expecting Steve to say a party, maybe, or a fundraiser, or some official state function he'd covered. But, instead, he offered Bucky the smallest of smiles and said: "First day of kindergarten."

The inquisitive smile slid right off of Bucky's face. His entire body went numb, fingertips to toes. Suddenly, he was fourteen on a hot summer's day, fighting back the bitter sting of tears and clinging to his best friend as a moving van sat idling in the driveway. " _Stevie_?" 

No fucking way the man in front of him was little Stevie Grant.

Steve nodded. The blush had spread to his neck and ears. "I guess I do look a little different."

"A _little_?" Bucky choked out. He couldn't stop staring. "You grew, like, a foot and gained about a hundred pounds. And...what happened to the glasses and your inhaler and, Jesus, how's your ticker...?"

There was seriously no way. Steve Rogers was – as previously noted – the literal embodiment of cut and chiseled and male perfection, a movie star inside and out. Stevie Grant – little Stevie – had been none of those things. Sickly as hell, with bad asthma and a weak heart, skinny as a beanpole, and sporting glasses as thick as Coke bottles. Still oddly beautiful in spite of everything that had been wrong with him, but Bucky'd always put it down to the fire in Stevie's belly. Always seemed like it was going to burn him from the inside out one day if he wasn't careful.

Steve ticked off Bucky's questions one by one. "Lasik surgery, two surgeries to fix the valve defects in my heart, I think I just grew out of the asthma or maybe having a heart that worked properly helped, and, um, I had a growth spurt. Two of them, in fact." Steve gave him a self-conscious smile. "Steven 'Stevie' Grant at your service."

"Holy shit." Bucky sat back and really studied Steve, not just as an attractive man he wanted to get to know better, and not just as someone he was getting paid to talk to, but with the knowledge that he'd _known_ the guy as a kid. Not just known, but knew him better than anyone on the planet. The reason Steve looked familiar was because they'd lived in each other's pockets from kindergarten until they were fourteen. 

Jesus, what did it say about him that he hadn't once put the pieces together that Steve Rogers, Hollywood It Guy, was the same person as his childhood best friend?

"Yeah," Steve concurred, and drained his glass in one big gulp. "Holy shit."

"God, I was so torn up when you moved. You and your mom were..." Bucky stopped, let out a shaky breath. His entire world order had just been completely rearranged in the last two minutes. This was insane. "You know, I still miss her sometimes. You too. I thought about you so much over the years, how you were, if you were happy..."

"I think I've been mourning you the last seventeen years," Steve blurted out, and _finally_ Bucky recognized the shadows he'd seen darkening Steve's eyes earlier in the evening. He'd been staring at the same variations of that look in the mirror since the day Steve moved.

"You never reached out. I never got a letter or a call or an email or... You obviously knew who I was and where I was all this time. Why didn't you ever get in touch?"

Steve refilled both their glasses. "It's a long story."

"You flew me out here on the pretext of an interview and you're putting me up in one of the most expensive hotels in Beverly Hills," Bucky reminded him. "I think I can carve out the time."

"It's not a pretext," Steve said, surprising Bucky yet again. "I do want to do the interview. But now you know why it had to be you and no one else."

"You know I got into investigative journalism because of you," Bucky said. Either he was still in shock or the scotch was loosening his tongue, because that wasn't remotely what he'd meant to say. He felt like he was watching events unfolding from a great distance.

"You did?" Those blue eyes – Stevie had always had the prettiest, bluest eyes, even behind the thick glasses he'd used to wear, how the _hell_ had Bucky not recognized them – narrowed in confusion.

"Yeah." Bucky nodded. "All that passion you had for wanting to right the wrongs of the world and the way you always stood up for yourself and anyone you thought needed a voice...it stuck with me. I joined the high school paper, then majored in journalism, and all I wanted to do was get out there and shine a light on all the injustices going on under the surface and hold people accountable. You taught me that."

"Wow." Steve sank back on the cushions. He looked as pole-axed as Bucky still felt. "That's...I don't...you know you've been my personal hero my entire life."

Amber liquid spilled on Bucky's hand as his grip on the tumbler faltered. " _What_?"

"Bucky, you saved my life. You were my _only_ friend growing up, the only person who would even talk to me outside my mom and our teachers." Steve was practically bleeding sincerity. If this was an act, Bucky thought he deserved every Oscar from here to eternity. "It never mattered to you that I couldn't breathe right or that I had a bad heart and couldn't play baseball or kickball like all the other kids or that I was basically blind without my glasses, you stuck by me. Hung out and played video games with me and read comics with me and you _listened_ to me. Mom dying and losing you in the same summer were the worst things that ever happened to me."

"Me too," Bucky whispered. His chest ached, his eyes were burning, he couldn't suck enough air into his lungs. He'd imagined – of course he had – running into Stevie Grant again, what he'd say, how he'd act, catching up on everything they'd missed, but this... Jesus, he never imagined _anything_ like this.

Steve's hand crept forward, almost like he was reaching out, then he jerked it back to his lap. "I almost got in touch when I heard about...when I read that you'd been –"

"When I got shot," Bucky finished, quietly. He'd been covering the civil war in South Sudan at the time, and got caught in a gunfight between two roving bands of soldiers. He rubbed at a spot just below his left collarbone, felt the rigid mass of scar tissue under the fabric of his henley. There was more scarring along his left arm and down his side. He could still recall the sharp stab of pain in his chest and the liquid fire in his lungs, the curious roaring in his ears, the heavy copper scent of blood – his own blood – filling his nostrils.

"Was it true?" Steve asked, in the gentlest tone Bucky'd ever heard. "They said you were in...that you almost..."

"I coded twice on the operating table," Bucky confirmed. "Almost bled out before they could get me to one of the clinics in Juba. They also tell me I crashed when they airlifted me to Kisumu, but I really don't remember much between getting shot and waking up in the hospital a week later feeling like I'd been hit by a truck." He didn't touch on the long months of recovery and how he'd had to learn to reuse his left hand again, and how his arm still ached sometimes when it was really damp or cold out.

Steve closed his eyes like it was paining him to keep them open. "I'm so sorry. God, what you went through... I should have come then. But I thought...I wasn't sure how welcome I'd be."

"Hey, look at me." Bucky waited until Steve was focused back on him. "I'm not gonna pretend like it didn't hurt that you never wrote me or called or answered any of my emails or anything, but –"

"– It wasn't that I didn't want to –"

"– Let me finish, okay. I'm not gonna pretend I wasn't hurt, but, Steve – _Stevie_ – fuck. You were my best friend. The best friend I ever had. I would have welcomed you no matter what, no matter when."

Steve shuddered, and his face crumpled. He seemed to fold in on himself. "Buck, I'm so sor –"

"Oh God, wait, just..." Bucky hurriedly set his glass down and plucked Steve's out of his hand before it went toppling to the floor. "C'mere," he said, and pulled Steve to him. Steve all but collapsed in his arms, buried his face in the crook of Bucky's neck, and clung to his back like he was afraid Bucky would disappear if he loosened his hold.

He ran soothing hands along Steve's spine, and stayed silent, just let Steve get whatever it was out of his system. He couldn't get over how _different_ Steve looked and felt now. Steve used to have the most delicate bones and porcelain pale skin that bruised easily and his breath had always sounded like it was being forced out of too tight lungs and his heart had always reminded Bucky of a hummingbird's. Now, Bucky felt hard muscle and smooth skin and, despite the hitch in Steve's breath, his lungs sounded completely clear.

But, God, Steve still fit against him exactly the same, still curved into his body like he did when they'd used to zip their sleeping bags together on sleepovers as kids and fell asleep curled around each other like puppies. He still _smelled_ like Steve, like sunshine and mint, like every good memory Bucky had of his childhood. And the swell of affection and desire to protect Steve from all the ills of the world was just as surprisingly strong as ever.

After awhile, Steve lifted his head. His face was red and blotchy and his lashes were wet. He swiped at his eyes, offered a bashful, chagrined smile. "God, you must think I'm completely off my nut."

"I think you needed to let it all out, whatever it was," Bucky said, and squeezed Steve's shoulder. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so." Steve nodded, let out a shaky, slow breath, and nodded again, surer this time. "I thought I was ready for this, y'know, seeing you again, dealing with everything that happened. Guess I don't know myself as well as I thought."

"It's a lot to take in," Bucky replied, with his own nervous shrug. "If it makes you feel better, I'm still kinda freaking out over here."

"It does, a little bit, yeah."

"Hey, I tell you what, let's do this." Bucky stuck out his hand and smiled his brightest, most disarming smile. "Hi, it's Bucky, and I guess it's obvious I kept the nickname you gave me. We used to be best friends, and I would _love_ to get caught up on the last seventeen years over some ridiculously expensive scotch."

Steve let out a watery chuckle, but his grip was firm and warm when he took Bucky's hand. "Hi, Buck, I, uh, I go by Steve Rogers now, but you can call me Steve or Stevie or Grant or whatever you want. You have no idea how happy I am to see you."

"Me too, buddy." Bucky felt lighter already. "So refill our glasses and tell me everything. How the hell'd you go from shy little Stevie Grant to box office megastar Steve Rogers? Rogers...that was... _Jesus_ , I'm an idiot, how did I not remember that. Your mom's maiden name, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it was." Steve looked pleased Bucky remembered. "Well, uh, like you, I mostly have you to thank for that," he said. He handed Bucky a newly filled glass and took his own. He still looked a little off-kilter, but his voice was steady and so were his hands, so Bucky was going to take the win.

"How's that?" he asked.

"Well, uh, after Mom died and I went to live with Aunt Sally, uh...Jeez, Buck, I was so depressed. I mean, deep depression, wouldn't eat, couldn't sleep, didn't want to move, couldn't concentrate, it was bad. I think it was a combination of losing Mom, being forced away from you, it wasn't... Well, I didn't deal well with it."

Bucky could well imagine. He'd been pretty depressed himself, and he hadn't had to move out of the state on top of everything else. "What happened?"

"My aunt got a job in London." Steve took a sip of his drink. "And it sort of sunk in that Mom was gone, you were gone, and I don't know, it just hit me one day that it was up to me to keep going. I was in therapy by then, which helped, and a couple of guys at my new school took me under their wing, and then I met Peggy Carter."

"Old girlfriend?" Bucky asked, teasing. 

"Yeah, actually." Steve shrugged, but that charming blush reappeared. "First girl I ever kissed. She reminded me of you, actually."

Bucky's heart lurched forward in his chest. "Yeah?"

Steve ran his fingers through his hair, and Bucky noted that they, at least, hadn't changed at all. They were still nice and long and artistic. Bucky remembered Steve always used to have a pen in his hands and was constantly doodling in the margins of his papers or notes during class. He wondered if Steve still drew. "She saw me. I mean, she _saw_ me. Back when I was still skinny and sick and short."

"I like her already," Bucky remarked. He'd never understood why no one else had seen how amazing and smart Steve was. Being friends with him had been like having a secret that no one else was smart enough to figure out.

"Anyway, she was really involved in theatre, so I got involved too. Mostly running the light booth at first or painting sets, but one day they needed a few extras and...you know, the second I stepped out on that stage, I _became_ someone else. Someone who wasn't sick all the time or who hadn't lost the only two people who mattered to him or who was living in a different country and homesick as hell, and it..." He stopped, shrugged again. "I got the bug, I guess. Acting was – is – my real therapy."

"I get it." And Bucky did. That's what reporting and writing had always been for him. A way to step out of his own head and his own shoes and become someone else.

Steve gave him another under-the-lashes glance. "You know I based Captain America on you."

Bucky choked on his drink again. "You _what_?"

"I told you, you were my hero growing up. So when I read the script the first time, I just imagined I was you."

"That's insane," Bucky laughed, feeling his own face heat up. Him as a superhero. Crazy. 

"Hey, you're out there doing a lot of good and helping people," Steve said. "You should be proud of what you've accomplished."

"I am, I guess I just don't...think of it like that," Bucky admitted. "Anyway, tell me more about you. You married, have kids, is that why you've been so secretive and unwilling to talk to the press?"

"I never talked to the press because I still hate public speaking, and I didn't want to talk about my childhood or my past. You were the only person I wanted to remember."

"Steve..."

"It's true, you were the _only_ good thing about those days," Steve insisted. "Anyway, I came close a couple of times to getting engaged, but no, no wife, no husband, no kids. I haven't even been on a date in over a year. It's hard to meet people you can really connect with in this business. Everyone seems to want something from you, y'know?" Then Steve gestured at him. "What about you? Any significant others or kids running around?"

"No on all fronts," Bucky replied absently, his brain stuck on _no husband_. Which meant... Well, he wasn't going to get his hopes up. "Uh, almost got married, but she became my editor instead, so it's just as well we broke it off. And, uh, my last semi-serious relationship was with my old photographer, but he went to work for another organization and we sort of drifted apart."

"So you, uh...you like both?"

"Yeah." Bucky jerked out a nod, his throat tight. "You too, I guess."

"Yeah." Steve flicked his tongue over his bottom lip and, before he even opened his mouth, Bucky knew exactly what he was going to say. "Do...you...do you remember that night? The night before I moved, I mean?"

Bucky nodded. His heart was fluttering all odd in his chest. "Yeah, of course I do. Guy doesn't forget his first kiss, Steve."

For just a moment, he was transported back to his childhood bedroom and the feel of soft lips on his, tasting like the Coke they'd both been drinking, and the way his heart had beat so hard he thought he was going to die, and that was before the first tentative touch of Steve's tongue against his. He'd never, ever wanted that kiss to end.

"I was so terrified you were going to punch me," Steve confessed, "but then I remembered I was moving and I'd never see you again, so I figured, fuck it."

"I'd been trying to work up the courage to kiss you for weeks," Bucky admitted. "You beat me to it. But you were always the braver one."

"Wait, are you...?" Steve's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, are you kidding?" Bucky let out a rueful chuckle. "I had such a thing for you. I mean, not that I really knew what that meant at the time, but...why are you laughing?"

"Sorry, it's not you." Steve shook his head. "I'm laughing at myself. God, I was such a mess – that's the reason I never reached out to you or returned your emails."

"Because of what happened that night?" 

"Because I was so embarrassed. I thought...I thought you only went along with it because you felt sorry for me and you weren't going to have to see me again."

"Are you –" Bucky snapped his jaw shut. Steve looked perfectly serious. Guilty, even, like he'd been carrying around this burden for over half his life. "Jesus, Steve, how could you think – I mean, _I_ was the one who – _Jesus._ "

"I wasn't really thinking clearly. I guess I just couldn't see a scenario where you wanted what happened as much as I did, so I got it in my head that you were only humoring me."

"I wasn't." Bucky let out a mirthless laugh. "I really _really_ wasn't." To think, all this time, Steve had been living with this, thinking this, thinking this about Bucky...

"I'm sorry," Steve said, helplessly.

"You gotta stop apologizing, man. It's...well, it's water under the bridge, alright." He wanted, so badly, to reach out, clasp Steve's hand, but he didn't. "But don't for a second think that night wasn't special or that it didn't mean something to me, because it did."

"Me too," Steve whispered. His eyes were suspiciously bright again. But they'd had enough crying over the past and what might've been and beating themselves over what they could've done different. So Bucky just grinned and prayed there was enough of how they used to be that his next words would be taken the way he wanted them to.

"Best handjob I've ever had."

"God." Steve slapped his hand over his mouth, but the laughter – real this time and beautiful and the best thing Bucky'd heard all night – spilled out over it. "I don't even think we lasted thirty seconds."

"True, but I've never had better. I'm not sure we could top it if we tried." The words just slipped out, but Bucky didn't try to call them back or brush it off. 

"Are you...?" Steve dropped his hand. His voice cracked when he spoke again. "You want to...with me?"

Biggest movie star on the planet, and one of the sexiest, most sought after men in the world, and he was looking at Bucky like he couldn't believe anyone would be foolish enough to want him. It was as heartbreaking as it was adorable.

"Seventeen years ago, you were the brave one. I think it's time I turned the tables," Bucky said and, bracing his hand on Steve's knee, leaned in to put his lips to Steve's.

Steve's lips were just as soft as he remembered, but he tasted different now. Instead of the sugary tang of Coke, Bucky tasted the whiskey they'd both been drinking, and something sharper, darker, underneath it that was brand-new, but Bucky craved it all the same. 

When he lifted his head, Steve was looking at him with wide eyes. His lips were spit-slick and slightly bruised and Bucky wanted nothing more than to drag Steve to him and kiss him until they were both incoherent. "This alright?" he asked. He wasn't taking anything for granted. Not now.

"More than." Steve smiled, slid his hands to Bucky's hair, the hold firm, the touch of a man who knew what he wanted. "I've dreamed about this moment for years. What you'd feel like now, taste like now..."

"Nothing stopping you from doing either," Bucky said, leaning in for another kiss. "I've got a ridiculously expensive suite upstairs with a really massive bed that some wealthy movie star paid for, if you were interested..."

"You sure about this? I don't want to take advantage..."

"I'm so sure, Steve. I want this. You. Whatever you're willing to give me." If it was just tonight, Bucky would take it, but he wanted... Well, it was far too soon to even think about what he really wanted.

It only took a minute for Steve to sign for the check, then they were in the elevator together and headed upstairs. Anticipation thrummed through Bucky like a live wire. He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted something as much as this.

The maid had already come around for turn down service when they stepped into the suite. The lights were dimmed and the covers were folded invitingly down on the bed, and Bucky twisted, intending to make some lighthearted joke about it to break the tension, but then Steve was crowding into him, hands in his hair again, and words were lost.

They kissed, hard and hungry and desperate, as they fumbled towards the bed, fell on it in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. Bucky couldn't figure out where to put his hands, where he wanted to touch Steve first, so he settled for roaming over every part he could reach in quick succession. Steve's mouth on his was the hottest thing on the planet, burning him up from the inside out.

"Need," Steve muttered against Bucky's lips, rough hands impatiently shoving at Bucky's henley. "Off."

"Off, right," Bucky parroted, fingers thick and clumsy as he tried to pull Steve's shirt off at the same time.

It took them a minute to get themselves sorted, but finally, they were both bare from the waist up, and fuck, Steve was an actual statue come to life, all hard muscle and smooth skin except for a small, white scar just under his breastbone. Heart surgery, Bucky remembered. Two of them, to replace a faulty valve. _Jesus_ , they'd missed so much of each other's lives.

Then Steve was reaching out and stroking Bucky's own scars with a delicate touch, and Bucky never wanted to see that broken, hurting look on Steve's face ever again. "Hey," he said, thumbing Steve's chin until those big blue eyes met his. "I'm here, alright. I made it. We both made it," he added, pressing his hand against Steve's scar, his meaning unmistakable.

"Yeah, we did," Steve answered, and that smile was so much better, that smile was _his_ Steve, the one he'd grown up with and missed so much over the last seventeen years. And Steve kept smiling as they kissed, transferred the smile to Bucky, a gift Bucky willingly accepted.

"I want you naked this time, if that's okay," Bucky said, when they parted for much needed breath.

"God, _yes_ ," Steve whispered, fervent. He rolled to his feet, kicked off his shoes and started attacking the buttons of his jeans like they'd personally offended him. Bucky would have laughed if he wasn't feeling the exact same way about his own jeans. He quickly finished getting undressed himself, and finished just in time for Steve to join him back on the bed, no barriers between them, just skin gliding on skin. This was so much better, something new and _now_ and different in the best possible way.

Steve touched Bucky absolutely everywhere – shoulders, arms, chest, back, hips, ass – and every flutter of his fingers was a mark that branded him, every deft caress burned through him like a furnace. Bucky couldn't stop kissing Steve, their lips and tongues sliding together, each kiss frantic and raw, a declaration and promise. _I'm here now, it's alright, we made it, we're together._

He moaned in Steve's mouth at the first feel of sweat-slick fingers around his cock, wasted no time returning the favor, shivering in need as he finally took Steve's cock in hand and started stroking. They were just as messy and uncoordinated as they'd been seventeen years ago, but now Bucky felt _everything_ so much more than he had that long ago night. Now he knew how to slow his rhythm, how to make this last. Now he knew how to kiss Steve sweet and soft until they were breathless, now he could swallow every one of Steve's gorgeous moans so they echoed down his own throat and settled in his chest. Now Steve knew how to twist his fingers _just_ so, how to tempt and tease and bring Bucky to the brink again and again with silken touches and the scrape of his teeth at Bucky's neck and earlobe.

Bucky had no idea how long they lasted – could have been mere moments or a year, it didn't matter – but when Steve sighed his name like it was the only sound in the world and trembled in Bucky's arms, Bucky only lasted a few seconds longer. His vision whited out, he moaned without sound, and the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth was Steve's hot breath in his ear and the rapid thump of Steve's heartbeat against his own.

They collapsed onto each other, both of them shaky and shaken, and when Bucky finally blinked the starbursts from his eyes, the first thing he saw was Steve looking down on him in wonder. "Hey," he murmured, and pushed at a few damp strands of hair on Bucky's forehead.

Bucky snagged a few tissues from the Kleenex box on the bedside table so they could clean themselves up a little. Then he smoothed his hands along Steve's back, still giddy at the idea that this amazing man was, at least for tonight, all his to touch and kiss. "Hey," he replied, then nuzzled at Steve's lips until they were kissing again, slow and honeyed and the perfect way to come down. 

After a few minutes of lazily making out, Steve shifted until he was only partially draped on Bucky's body. He laid his head on Bucky's shoulder and Bucky carded his hand through Steve's hair, still cornsilk fine even though it was longer now than it had been when they were kids. Bucky wondered if it was for a role.

He let out a breathless chuckle. 

"What is it?" Steve asked, lifting his head. His eyes were bright and his smile even brighter, like the sound of Bucky's laughter brought him joy. Like Bucky's happiness was _his_ happiness. Bucky wanted to drink in that look – wanted to be the _reason_ for that look – for the rest of his life.

"I was just thinking that I don't think I'll be putting any of this into my interview."

Steve stared at him for a minute, then started laughing, deep belly laughs that shook the bed and reverberated through Bucky's entire body. It was infectious as hell.

"Oh man..." Steve groaned and, shoulders still shaking, pressed a kiss to Bucky's lips. "I'm pretty sure we've been off the record all night if that helps."

"Well, _I'm_ not gonna tell anyone," Bucky replied. "I mean, it's not like I make a habit of this."

"Me neither."

Bucky really didn't want to think about why that simple admission made him so happy. "But, you know, if you are dead set on doing this interview, you're gonna have to go on the record at some point."

"I will. And I do," Steve said. "Maybe after breakfast, we could head over to my agent's, use one of her offices... I mean, unless you don't want me to stay the night or anything, I mean, it's _fine_ if you –"

Bucky put a finger to Steve's lips. "Stop. I want you to spend the night. I want breakfast in bed tomorrow morning and maybe lunch in bed too. I don't want to let you out of my goddamn sight, Steve. Is that answer enough for you?"

Steve nodded, his eyes wide and so hopeful, reflecting every single thing Bucky was feeling. "I want to take you out," Steve said. "On a date. A proper date, not... Do you still like baseball? The Dodgers are in town this week if you wanted –"

"Yes." Bucky kissed Steve, because he wanted to and he could and he loved the look on Steve's face after he did it. "Yes, I still love baseball. Yes, I'd love to go out with you, yes. Just...yes."

"I live in New York now," Steve blurted out. "And I want to act a little less, do more humanitarian work, get out, make a real difference. And I know it'll be hard, because your work takes you all over the world and so does mine but, if you wanted, I mean, if you think we could –"

Bucky grinned, so giddy he felt like a kid all over again. "I just said yes, didn't I?" 

"Well, yeah, but not to –"

"Yes to _all_ of it. Whatever you're offering. I've spent the last seventeen years without my best friend, okay? I'm not wasting any more time, not if you'll have me."

"I will. I mean, I do. I mean...Christ." Steve let out a rueful laugh and nuzzled at Bucky's neck. "Yes," he finally said. "I don't want to waste any more time, either."

"Good, then it's settled," Bucky said, and rolled Steve onto his back, settled between his legs with his most lascivious grin. "Now, are you interested in actually making up some of that lost time or...?"

"Fuck yes, absolutely," Steve breathed, and pulled Bucky down on top of him.

***

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a pinch-hit in about 72 hours after getting inspired by TwinAgonies' great prompt. Special thanks are in order to my amazing betas, Melle and Jo and G., who dropped everything to read through it at the minute and even helped me brainstorm the title. Any remaining mistakes are solely on me.
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/)!


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